The idea of a camel safari in the Thar desert around Jaisalmer with India’s Mr Desert seemed a good one, but after a day on a camel it can begin to pale.

The panoply of stars hung over us like a bespeckled funeral shroud as the baking sand gave up its heat like a stiffening corpse. Oppressively pressing us down into the sand you could almost see the curvature of the earth, your perspective only reintroduced by the occasional motion of shooting stars burning out in the upper stratosphere.

Lying on my back in the sand and staring up it filled my entire field of vision, producing an optical illusion. My eyes started to swim and I sat up before the universe started to close in.

I shifted uncomfortably, trying to excavate a buttock-shaped receptacle in the sand with a wriggle to ease the aching. I felt like the pretty, new boy in the prison films who is unwillingly “adopted” by Mr Big who is in with the warders. But my soreness was not the result of a lifestyle change, rather the rolling, belching, stinking ship of the desert that it had been my misfortune to be sitting on for the past eight hours.

Silhouetted at the top of a nearby dune my nemesis, hobbled to it’s knees, carried on it’s low monotone of flatulence. I hoped that it was as uncomfortable as me, but somehow I doubted it. The crackling fire was barely heating the food, let alone my weary bones and I gratefully reached out for one of the Kingfisher beers which Mr Desert had brought out from town in his brand new Mahindra jeep. Disappointingly warm when he arrived, they had been left outside of our little circle in the cold sand and were now nicely chilled.

Every good campfire needs good conversation and Mr Desert was the ideal fireside companion as we caught up on all of his news. I had not seen him since bumping into him by chance at the Pushkar mela three years before and in that time he had had a daughter whom he doted on, been in two commercials on Indian TV (one for Dulux paint where he had to be filmed walking round Pushkar wearing different brightly coloured turbans) and started to dye his luxuriant Rajput beard to get rid of the grey.

The idea of a camel safari in the Thar desert around the Rajasthani town of Jaisalmer had seemed romantic, but after a day spent on a camel it was beginning to pale.

Jaisalmer is a magical place. A near perfect fort set in the middle of a harsh desert. Within the walls of the fort are a cluster of narrow streets, temples and ancient houses that make up the old town. The whole area is steeped in history and it was this that inspired me to take to the camel for a rolling lurch through time.

I was a bit pushed for time and opted for the combined jeep and camel safari. The safari lasts for two and a half days, with the first half day and most of the distance being done in Mr Desert’s spanking new Mahindra.

The first stop was the Royal Chatris at Bada Bagh, just outside town. These are the cenotaphs of the Maharajahs of Jaisalmer. Set on rocky ground looking over the desert with cactus plants growing around them they are a mute reminder of the halcyon days of Jaisalmer where Rajput chivalry decreed that it was better to die than surrender. As the menfolk rode out from besieged forts to die the women would hurl themselves onto giant funeral pyres to avoid a fate worse than death.

Mr Desert is a Rajput. In fact Mr Desert is the most Rajputy Rajput in Jaisalmer. Officially. In the Desert Fair run by the local tourist commission he was voted Mr Desert for five years running until they gave him the title for life. After the first victory he quit being a long distance truck driver, taught himself English and set up in tourism. Now he is one of the most established and certainly the most honest camel safari business in the town.

A plethora of tour companies have set up — often tying up a cheap hotel deal with an over priced safari. Many tourists try to save money and end up without food or sharing a camel. Old Mr Desert might not be the cheapest operation but you will be guaranteed a good time and the food is excellent. Often Mr Desert will bring out the last meal from his wife in town.

Next on the tour is the water tank and new Jain temple at Amar Sagar. The water tank is, of course, bone dry and stays that way for much of the year. After the monsoon rains the tank will fill up. After heavy rains the water will reach the walls of the temple and make it into an island temple. An ambitious plan for a desert temple.

There is still work going on in the temple complex and the tinny ring of stone masons’ chisels rings out across the dry tank bed. On the far side of the tank there is a large buttress wall which the town children use to jump into the water. At different heights up the wall are stone carved animals representing different heights of water. So an elephant year won’t be as wet as a horse year.

Soon after this we hit the camels and began the long mooch (when they are not trotting camels mooch with the hip rocking slouch of petulant teenagers on their way to the headmasters office after being busted for smoking behind the bike sheds) to our own private sand dunes. All the other operations camp at the Sam Dunes, which are bigger than these but turn into a three ring circus at sunset with day trippers, hawkers, traders and all manner of beggars. We had these dunes virtually to ourselves.

I got Mr Desert to tog up in his full regalia and ride round the dunes on a camel whilst I took some photographs as the sun set. This done, he rode off to the other side of the dunes and scared the hell out of another couple of tourists who were on a four-day trip with him and were the only others in the area.

The next day was a whole day on the camels, through harsh, unremitting countryside. We thought we were hard done by, but people had to live and farm and die here. We passed through many small villages and water points — much to the great amusement of the locals.

Especially when it became time to get down from the camels. A strange procedure this involves the camel drover clicking like a broken pilot light on a gas cooker until the camel folds its front legs back on themselves and crashes onto its knees, projecting the hapless rider forward with testicular crushing force. That saddle pommel which was a godsend when you wanted something to hold onto now becomes a vicious hidden enemy.

Our drovers had their own camels which meant that we were able to pass a number of other outfits who were being led by their guides on foot. Travelling at a trot is actually far more comfortable than walking on a camel and we arrived at the last stop - the deserted town of Lodruva. We camped in a dry river bed and waited the arrival of Mr Desert from town with the evening meal - a veritable banquet of home cooking.

Before eating and as the sun set we stripped down the camels and raced them up and down the river bed at a gallop. The acceleration of a camel is quite spectacular and the drovers whipped them up to top speed as we clung on, whooping and laughing in exhileration and delight.